la petite mort
by BlondeTate
Summary: Boston, where the leaves change and the seasons are different. The city seems like heaven to him. And every heaven has angels, don't they?


**Oh hey. It feels like it's been a lifetime since I wrote something AHS related (and it has been) so yay for the AHS Exchange for motivating me! And yay for _jandjsalmon _who organized the whole thing. And yay for _sothereyougo _who gave me such an awesome prompt (and I'm not lying when I say that I actually had the idea of an older Violet with a younger Tate for a while now). As for older Violet, I imagined her as Vera Farmiga while writing this, but I'm curious who you guys can imagine as her if you have any other ideas.**

**This was awarded with Favorite Sad Feels Fic, but it was a three way tie, and the other two fics are just as heart crushing, so go read them, go go go.**

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_la petite mort_

There's something ironic about meeting your father again after thirteen years at your mother's funeral. What's that saying about a door closing, another opening? Except I wish that both damn doors just closed.

There is no part of me which longs to go to Boston with my... _Dad_, but since I'm not of legal age yet, there is little I can do. I comfort myself by repeating over and over again that it can only be better than living with the Cocksucker, and if I could handle seventeen years by her side, I can handle one more by my father's. He doesn't look like he really cares about me anyway, so perhaps I can just get by on my own, unnoticed, while he continues living his life as if I was not there. I have no idea what he does for a living because I haven't heard of him since I was four, but judging by the way he dresses and talks, and the way he carries himself, I'd wager he's a business man. Hopefully the kind who is never home. It would certainly benefit me.

He's obviously impatient to leave my mother's memorial service and I can't say I blame him. My stuff is already packed and waiting in the car, and as much as I'm not looking forward to living with _him_, I am excited about Boston. I'm excited about leaving this shit hole. To go live in a place where the leaves change and the seasons are different, it seems like heaven. No more LA heat, no more bullshit evergreen trees... No more fucking Constance.

My eyes wander to her casket and while I don't laugh like I really want to, I don't bother with pretending to be devastated either. I don't feel sad. I don't feel anything.

Which is strange, I suppose. I always thought I'd love this, I always thought I'd be satisfied. Especially considering it was me who ultimately brought her end. But no, I'm strangely empty. Like it doesn't even matter, whether she lives or not. All my life I spent hating her and now that she's gone, well, I don't know what to do. What exactly is my purpose?

I have no friends, my siblings are dead and my father might as well be too. I guess you could say I have no one. The thought scared me more than I cared to admit. _What do I do now?_

A hand on my shoulder brings me out of my reverie, and turning around, I decide to start slow. Now I go to Boston, and then... I guess we'll see.

.

.

.

On the long way to Boston, I learn a few things about Hugo, my father. First, I was right, he is a businessman. Something with computers, I think, but I don't pay that much attention. Second, he's engaged to some woman whom I'm scheduled to meet soon, after he's back from his business trip in Istanbul, which is the third thing I learn about him. Not even a day after I arrived, he's leaving for two weeks and I'll be alone for that time.

Well, this is not so bad after all, I think to myself. The house is, unsurprisingly, huge and although it's not really my style - too cliche, too extravagant - I can appreciate it better than the one we used to have with the Cocksucker. It won't be completely horrible to live here, minus my father. But hopefully he won't be around much.

And of course there's his fiancé as well, but I decide to worry about her only after I met her.

My first day in Boston starts out uneventfully. I say goodbye to Hugo in the morning, - an awkward procedure, as he obviously has no clue what to do with the son he abandoned so long ago, and I can't be bothered to give a shit and make things easier on him - I drink my usual cup of coffee, and then I'm off to the school he already managed to enroll me in. It's the same old boring shit as in LA, same old stupid people, and I already know I won't be making any appearances for the rest of the week. I only made an effort to come because it was my first day, but that's it. There's nothing useful school could ever teach me.

I come home to an empty house, as expected, and after exploring it a bit, I decide to go see the city as well. It's the first few weeks of September, the sun is still shining brightly, but the weather is comfortably warm, not suffocating like in LA. It's only one thing, but it already makes me love this city more than the _"City of Angels."_ I roam the streets, making note of every book or CD store I see, every interesting things I come across, statues, parks, fountains... I only take notice of the time when I begin to feel my legs tiring and I realize that I've been walking for a few hours now, observing Boston and its residents. Sitting down a nearby bench, I begin people watching.

A man in a black suit passes by, carrying a suitcase, talking to someone on the phone. An important man, no doubt, or at least he thinks of himself as one. He reminds me of my father, so I quickly look away. My eyes land on a girl with long dark hair, pale skin, dressed in black. She's walking in a quick pace, her eyes are cast down and her arms are gripping her sides as if she's trying to protect herself from something. Maybe she's being bullied or abused. Then comes a teenager on a skateboard, his hat hiding his eyes and his jeans barely covering his ass which makes me roll my eyes in disgust. Typical. Is it so hard to pull those jeans up higher? An elderly lady follows him, one hand gripping her stick, the other holding the leash of her dog, murmuring something about purple eggs under her breath as she passes me. Grinning to myself, I turn to the next person walking by and that's when it happens.

There she is, easily the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes upon. My breath catches in my throat, and I'm unprepared for the strange sensations building in my chest, a feeling I can identify as lust and something else entirely. I barely have enough time to take her in as a whole, let alone reflect on those feelings, before a man comes colliding into her, spilling the cup of coffee he was carrying all over her white shirt. To say she's pissed would be an understatement.

She mutters a few cuss words under her breath and calls him an idiot, but accepts the tissues he offers her, demanding him to have her clothing cleaned. He quickly agrees, and although the anger is clearly present on her face, she remains civil until she notices him looking at her breasts. I suppose I can't blame him. The brown spot on her white shirt is almost see through, clinging to her curves quite nicely and I find myself feasting my eyes on her as well. Her breasts aren't large or too small, in fact, they seem like just the right size for me to hold them in my hands, squeeze them, make her moan. But it's her nipple which catches my - and probably his - attention, hardened and pointy and _distracting_. I imagine them pink and inviting, I imagine taking them into my mouth and sucking. _Fuck._ I can already feel my jeans tightening uncomfortably and I don't even stop to question that I have literally never in my life seen this woman before. I don't care. I already know that I want her. And some strange, possessive part of me deep down inside wants to strangle this man for daring to look at her that way, even if it's understandable.

That's why I'm happy to see that she doesn't find the stares flattering either.

("My eyes are up here, asshole.")

She hisses the words at him threateningly. Have I mentioned it yet that even her voice is absolutely alluring? Especially with that barely disguised anger coloring it. I bet hate sex would be so hot with her.

He lifts his gaze back up to her face but he doesn't look apologetic in the slightest. In fact, the bastard is actually smirking and has the nerve to use some cheap pickup line on her. The only reason I don't get up and pummel his face to the ground is because it would probably look strange to her and I want to see her reaction.

She growls in the back of her throat and the way she's glaring at him makes me think of that old saying. _If looks could kill... _Rummaging through her bag, she takes out a small white plastic card, with her phone number on it, I assume, and hands it over to him. What she does next surprises me though. She's lifting her arms, pulling her stained shirt over her head, throwing it at the man with a growl of_ 'I expect it cleaned by next week' _and walks away in only her bra, completely ignoring the confused looks she gets from everyone. I stare at her retreating back in amazement, a chuckle bubbling out of me. She has fire. She's amazing.

The romantic in me says she's the woman of my dreams. The poet in me says she's a goddess walking this earth.

The realist in me says I need to have her.

.

.

.

The fact that she's obviously significantly older than me doesn't even occur to me until later.

.

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.

I don't see her the next day which frustrates me to no end. Granted, I don't know what I expected. She's an unfamiliar woman in an unfamiliar, big city and the chances that I'll see her again are low. _Fuck me._ I don't know why I didn't think of that before but I could bang my head against the wall for my stupidity. I should have fucking followed her home or something, so I'd know a way to find her. But now I must come up with something else.

So I spend the day brainstorming while wandering the city, hoping to come across her again but no such luck. I visit the same bench I sat on when I saw her yesterday, I spend an hour or so people watching again, but she still doesn't come by. I'm not one to give up easily and since I have nothing better to do anyway, I spend most of the day on the streets. Eventually, though, I have to go home as well, unsatisfied and moody.

I hope tomorrow will bring more luck.

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.

.

It must be fate, I decide, as my eyes rest upon her familiar features again. What were the chances of seeing her again? Not high, I suppose. Yet there she is, only two days after I first saw her, and I decide to take that as a sign. Even the universe wants me to have her. And there's no way I'll lose sight of her again.

I tail her from a safe distance, close enough to keep an eye on her, but far enough to not make her suspicious of my presence. I don't need her to think I'm a creep just yet. There'll be plenty of time for that later. But even so, she doesn't look like the type who gets scared easily. No, on the contrary, she looks like the type who enjoys challenges, who's a bit of a daredevil just for the heck of it, who's attracted to the darkness.

And there's plenty of darkness in me to share with her. Which is why she'll be the perfect woman for me.

I follow her to a small coffee house, wonderful. Here I can blend in and observe her without being noticed. Last time I didn't have the chance to remember everything about her, but now, sitting a few tables away from her, I could commit all the details into my memory. Like the way her blonde hair falls into her eyes while she types something on her laptop and she pushes the unruly strays behind her ear, an adorable scowl sitting on her lips. Pink lips, free of lipstick or lip gloss. Moreover, her whole face is makeup less, which is a surprising but nice change. I like it, I definitely do. It makes her look natural, even more beautiful.

She's wearing a long black dress today, with red floral patterns on it, and a yellow cardigan. Black boots, no jewelry. The only word I can think of is unique. She's unique which I already love about her. She looks about forty, give or take, but it doesn't matter, I don't care. I don't know her yet, not really, but she's the best thing to happen to me since my siblings' deaths and, because of that, her age is irrelevant to me. Besides, if I'm being completely honest, the fact that she's older is a bit of a turn on.

The waitress asks her if she wants her usual which lets me know that she's a regular here. Good. At last, a place I can tie her to, somewhere I can find her.

I spend the rest of the time just watching her, fantasizing, my mind already conjuring up a thousand little scenarios, all sexual, of course. She notices my staring once, lifts her eyes and meets mine, and by the way her eyes scrutinize me, I can tell she's known I've been watching her for a while now. I don't look away, I hold her gaze, and I think my intentions are pretty clear. She doesn't look stupid, she can probably recognize the naked lust on my face and it excites me to see her eyes widen in surprise before they darken as she takes me in. Does she feel the same? Does she feel the attraction between us, the connection? I find it hard to imagine that she doesn't when it's all I could think about in since I saw her.

She says nothing, does nothing, just holds my gaze for a few seconds, equally curious and confused and - you may think I'm biased but I don't think I am - _turned on. _When she looks away, it's only because she's standing up to gather her belongings, and although she doesn't glance back at me, I can see the small smirk playing on her lips while she leaves the coffee house.

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I spend the next two weeks watching her from afar. Afraid of making a bad impression, scaring her away, making her think I'm a freak or stalking her, - which is technically true but details - I don't show up again in the coffee house for a few days. I do keep an eye on her though, and I follow her home one time. Her house looks modest on the outside, nothing extravagant or special about it, however, there is something which catches my attention. The _'FOR SALE' _sign in the garden. It makes me a bit worried. She isn't moving to another city, is she? Or maybe worse, moving in with a boyfriend? I know she's definitely not married or engaged because she's not wearing a ring on her finger, but there's a chance she has a boyfriend.

I can't be sure, but it somewhat pacifies me that the only male person to show up at her house in the time I spend stalking her is a boy about my age, perhaps a bit older, who looks like her son, or a family member at the very least, but definitely not a boyfriend. Even if she has someone else, it won't stop me from trying to win her over, but it might make things just a tad harder on me. Not only that, but the thought of her with some guy who most likely doesn't even deserve her makes me want to punch things.

That's an interesting realization to me. Obviously, I feel attracted to her, but it goes beyond that. I want to get to know her. I feel like I already do, like I've known her my whole life. It seems stupid when you think about it, since we've never even talked before and I know next to nothing about her, but the connection I feel is undeniable. I want to be with her, in more ways than one. I guess this is what they call _'love at first sight'_, even though I don't believe in that stuff. And I don't think I love her either, I don't. But maybe I could. I don't know.

Maybe I'm just in love with the idea of being in love, of finding someone similar to me, someone who understands me and doesn't judge me. Someone who can challenge me and love me back. Maybe I'm just projecting these thoughts and feelings onto this mystery woman simply because I haven't seen anyone more beautiful than her in my whole life. Maybe that's all.

Or maybe there's more to it. But I know there's only one way to find out.

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.

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It's Friday, the day Hugo is coming back from his business trip in Istanbul, but that's not why I feel so nervous. I'm nervous because this is it, today is the day I finally approach her. My mystery woman.

I still don't know her name. I spent the entire time trying to figure it out, even guessing sometimes, but none of the names I came up with seemed to fit. It's driving me up the wall, not knowing. Whose name am I supposed to call out when I jerk off to thoughts of her at night, every night?

Today, I would finally find out. Hopefully.

Truthfully, I can't tell why I took so long to approach her. Maybe some part of me, the sick son of a bitch part of me, enjoyed watching her in secret. Maybe I wanted to make sure she really was worth my attentions. But probably both.

I come up to her in the coffee house, sitting down at her table. I've been here only once more after we participated in our staring contest, (which I won, by the way, because she was the one who stood up to leave) but that time I made sure I didn't even look her way. It was hard to, but I managed to completely ignore her and was out the door the moment I finished my coffee. It was worth it when I felt her gaze burning a hole in my back as I left. Yeah, I definitely riled her up that day. I made her crave my attention, made her wonder why I didn't even glance in her way, which was my intention.

Now, I would finally begin my pursuit of her. I have an inkling it wouldn't be the easiest thing I've ever done, but it would be worth it. I could make her mine, I have faith in that.

She glances up as I sit down, watching me closely. Her face doesn't betray any emotions but her eyes shine with curiosity and, if I'm correct, a little bit of smugness. I hold back a grin. Here goes nothing.

("Hi."

"So you finally worked up your courage to approach me, huh?")

She's smirking as she leans back in her seat and I have a feeling she's completely aware of how enchanted I am by her and she loves it. She's already driving me crazy with that little tilt of her mouth as she looks at me. That's why it takes me a moment too long to answer and then she's laughing softly, eyes twinkling.

("What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

"I'm Tate."

"Hello, Tate. Wanna tell me what you want from me?"

"I think you know. I couldn't help but notice you and I had to talk to you. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"Charming. But a little too sappy for my taste.")

I chuckle. She takes a sip of her coffee but her chocolate brown eyes never leave mine, the curious gleam in them still apparent. And me, I'm still plagued by one question in particular - I need to put a name to her face.

("I didn't catch your name."

"Because I didn't tell you."

"Are you going to?"

"How old are you?"

"Old enough."

"I doubt that. You're young, it's sweet that you've taken an interest in me but it just kind of makes me think of that old ABBA song, what is it called...

"_Does Your Mother Know?_"

"That, yes. See, I was a kid when it was a big hit in the seventies and you... your parents probably weren't even planning you yet."

"Age is just a number."

"The law doesn't agree."

"How do you know I'm not of age yet?"

"You're not, are you? That's why it took so long for you to approach me?"

"I wasn't scared."

"Mmmmh."

"I wasn't. And I can tell that you like the attention I'm giving you.")

She has no response to that because she knows I'm right. It makes me smirk, until she stands up and puts her laptop back in her bag, obviously getting ready to leave. Irrational panic rises in my chest, fearing that I scared her away and she won't come back to the coffee house anymore and I won't see her again. I could not have screwed this up so quickly, could I? I know she feels the attraction I feel for her too, I know it. She can try to run but she won't get far. Or at least I hope so.

Desperation makes me call after her, louder than intended but she answers me, at least.

("Your name, please."

"Violet.")

She doesn't turn to look back at me as she exits.

.

.

.

Violet.

_Violet._

I test the name on my tongue, repeat it over and over again as I'm walking home.

Violet.

I imagine saying it to her, I imagine the name falling from my lips as I fuck her - or, more realistically, as I jack off tonight.

Violet.

It's perfect.

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It's dark and raining outside when my father arrives home, effectively ending the comfortable freedom I had in the last two weeks. Setting his umbrella aside, he tells me he's brought his fiancé over so I can meet her, and I don't even have time to prepare before she walks in.

Not just anyone woman, but her. My woman. My mystery woman. Violet.

For a second I'm just simply overjoyed to see her again, my brain not yet catching up, but the grin freezes on my face when I realize what this means. It's her, his fiancé? It couldn't be. No, maybe I'm just hallucinating. No way I could be that unlucky, right?

But her face mirrors my shock, even if she tries to not let it show, nodding along to something my father is saying. I don't pay attention to him. I'm too occupied with cursing everything and everyone under the sun for putting me in this impossible situation, because for fuck's sake, she's not only engaged but she's engaged to my goddamn _father_. The thought is revolting. How is this possible?

She offers her hand for me to shake and I know she's not going to mention our earlier escapades, not to him, something I'm grateful for. I don't want him to know either. So I play along, shaking her hand, unable to ignore the rush of electricity coursing through me when her skin touches mine. _The first time I touch her and it has to go like this..._ I find her eyes, observing her, and I know, I just _know_ she feels it too. There's something else which catches my attention as well, the fact that she's wearing a shiny, huge diamond ring on her finger. Something she definitely wasn't wearing any of the times I watched her. I would have noticed it. _Interesting._

Of course I can't ask her about it right now so I just smile and politely introduce myself while thinking that, damn it, I would rather take the hallucinations.

What a fucked up little family.

.

.

.

("You weren't wearing your ring when I met you."

"Yeah, so?"

"Why?"

"I don't like it. It's not my style. I only wear it around him."

"That's bullshit. Why do you have to wear a ring you don't like for his benefit?"

"Marriage is compromises.")

I sigh, rolling my eyes. Now I could start trying to convince her not to marry him but something tells me it's too soon for big speeches and heartfelt declarations yet. I don't think trying _too_ hard is the way to get to her.

So instead I tell her the simple truth.

("Don't think just because you're marrying my father, this is over. I want you and I'm not giving up."

"You're gonna have to wait forever for me."

"Then I will.")

.

.

.

When I find out the wedding is in two weeks, I break a vase or two in the house. It's too soon and I know I won't be able to stop it or win her over in time. Thus, I'm doomed to chase after a woman who's married to my father. It doesn't make me feel less for her but it does make things more complicated and messed up, and just the thought of her in the arms of Hugo causes one of those vase's death.

She's the only one who comes to find the source of the commotion but when she sees what I'm doing, she just gives me a look and walks away. Great. I hope she thinks I'm a total psychopath now, just what I needed. I rub a hand across my forehead and kick the bedside table, ignoring the small ache in my toe.

What should I do now?

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.

.

I decide to do the obvious: get to know her. Help her with wedding preparations. Talk to her, find out as much as I can about her. It's a start, for both of us. I have a feeling that no matter how attracted she might be to me, she's not going to give in just for the sake of sex. There's gotta be some kind of emotional connection between us too. And that works out perfectly for me, because I like her, I do. She's an interesting woman, quite easily the most interesting woman I've ever encountered in my life, and I want to get to know her. I want to know everything.

So over the course of the next two weeks, I find out many things about her. I learn that she works at home as a translator - French and Russian. The coffee shop I first talked to her is a place she often goes to work. She's forty-five years old, the same as my mother was, which is which is a little bit discouraging - not because I give a damn but because _she_ might. She has a twenty-four year old son, (older than me, also a bit unnerving) named Gale. He's a result of a one night stand she had when she was young and she has no idea who his father is. She raised him all alone, with the help of her parents sometimes. Her parents, she has a complicated relationship with them. When she was about my age, they had a fallout, a _huge_ fallout which ended up with them getting divorced a few years later. Apparently her mother had a miscarriage and her father cheated on her with his much younger student (oh-oh, the _irony_) and afterwards they were both too busy hating each other to be a parent to Violet. She says that by the time they got to the decision to get divorced, she was actually glad to see her parents split.

It's these and many other basic things I learn about her. I discover that her favorite color is green and she's a huge fan of Morrissey and Edgar Allan Poe. I find out that she wants to keep her maiden name, Harmon, after the wedding. No Mrs. Hugo Langdon or Violet Langdon. Which is great because I don't want _my father_ to be the reason for her wearing our family name. She tells me many little things in our many conversations, and in return, I do the same. I tell her about how I used to run track and have piano lessons all because my mother made me. I tell her that my favorite color is black (or the color of her eyes) and that I love Nirvana. I tell her about my passion for birds. I even tell her all about Constance, and Addie and Beau, and how she's murdered them both. (Chased Addie into her death and smothered Beau.) I don't tell her that I actually killed her because I don't feel like she's ready for that yet but maybe someday.

We exchange stories, share our lives with each other and it's great. It's fucking _fantastic, _because we both feel like we can trust one another, confide in each other. I feel I'm getting somewhere with her, slowly but surely. The knowledge makes me fall asleep with a smile on my face every night after I jerked off, thinking only about her.

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Unfortunately, the day of the wedding arrives sooner than I would have liked it. I'm forced to sit through it in my black tuxedo with a perpetual scowl on my face, watching as she walks down the aisle in her white dress - nothing big, unlike the rest of the wedding, she kept it simple and clean - and say her_ 'I do'_ to my father. I roll my eyes the whole time and turn away when they kiss. I so do not need that image burned in my brain for the rest of my life.

The reception is a bit more bearable. There's a lot of people, too much dancing and too loud music - _bad_ music, on top of it - but the food is good and there's booze. So I tolerate it. I sit at one of the tables in the corner, all by myself, only having eyes for her the entire time. She looks kind of bored as well. Her smile is just a bit forced when she talks to the guests and accepts their good wishes, and her eyes don't really shine when she dances with her new husband, no matter how hard she tries to look happy. She doesn't love him. She's settling at best. It makes me sad because a woman like her shouldn't be settling for something less than she deserves.

I approach her at last, a glass of champagne in my hand to match hers, clinking our glasses together to get her attention. She turns around, her polite smile transforming to a cheeky smirk when she sees me.

("You look beautiful."

"Thank you. You look good yourself."

"A dance?"

"I don't think,-"

"Come on. No one will say anything if you dance with your new husband's son.")

She contemplates for a second, her eyes searching mine for any ulterior motives, but I had none besides wanting to talk to her and have her close. Dancing is a good excuse to hold her as close to me as I want to. With a small sigh, she nods and places her champagne on the table, holding her hand out for me. I take it without hesitation, familiar with the burning sensation I feel when our skins touch. Leading her to the dance floor, I'm unable to wipe off the huge Cheshire grin on my face. Dancing with a beautiful woman in my arms, even if it's her wedding to another man, life could be worse.

("Enjoying the party?"

"Sure."

"You don't seem so enthusiastic."

"I am. I'm just not one of those stupid, brainless brides, you know. I wanted a smaller wedding anyway. All these people here, I don't even know them."

"Hugo makes all the shots for you, doesn't he? That comprise thing, it doesn't seem like it's working out for you well."

"I wouldn't say that. I don't allow a man to tell me what to do, I lead my own life, do my own thing. It's just the wedding."

"Frankly, it sounds like you two have two different lives, want different things. Why did you marry him? Do you love him?"

"He could be worse. I gave up on love a long time ago."

"Bitter? Someone broke your heart?"

"Not really, as I never gave anyone my heart to begin with. It was enough to watch my parents struggle through their marriage, then all my friends and everyone I know. They're all so invested, all so desperate for love, and when it doesn't work out... they're heartbroken. So it's easier to just not expect anything from anyone, then you won't be disappointed."

"I don't know... I believe there is someone right out there for everyone, or at least for those who deserve it. You certainly deserve it. You deserve better than him."

"You don't even know him."

"I know he left us when I was four and never tried to contact us again. I know that even now, he still doesn't try to be my father. What I don't know is why you married him if you don't love him."

"When you've been with someone for a while, at my age, it just make sense. No one wants to be alone for the rest of their lives. So when he popped the question, I said yes. It's either that or break up."

"Are you scared of being alone?"

"_No._ Not _scared_. I just don't want to be. There's a difference.")

I spin her around and pull her closer than before, our chests pressing together. She gasps at my move. Our eyes lock together and something passes between us, our mutual attraction for each other heightening, our breaths mingling together. Her chocolate brown eyes darken with something that I'm sure is lust, and I bite down on my lips to keep from grinning. Her next word, a gasp, she's barely able to get it out.

("Don't.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that, it's not going to happen."

"You flirted with me, though, when we first met."

"I didn't."

"Oh, come on. Who are you trying to fool?"

"Fine. Maybe I did. There's nothing harmful in that. You're an attractive boy and anyone would have felt flattered to be the center of your attention. But I didn't know who you were then. And I assure you, even if you weren't Hugo's son, nothing would have _ever_ happened between us."

"So you think I'm attractive?"

"Is that the only thing you heard?"

"Do you think I'm irresistible too? Insanely hot?"

"I do think you're very cocky."

"Only because I _know_ you want me."

"Keep dreaming, boy.")

Predictably, she disentangles herself from me and walks away, but from a safe distance, she glances back. I grin. Gotcha, Violet Harmon.

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.

It's around eleven o'clock when I wander downstairs to get myself a glass of water, and I come across Violet, sitting at the table with wine in her hand. She's all dolled up, fancy dress, fancy hair, and two plates on the table with some delicious looking food on them. The only light in the room comes from two burning candles. _Like in the fucking movies..._

But her facial expression is all wrong, sad and disappointed, instead of excited, and she's gulping down those glasses of wine like her life depended on it. I can already pretty much guess what happened, but I ask anyway so I can try to comfort her, my own thirst for water forgotten.

("Hey? What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"That's why you're all dressed up, drinking wine alone at a candlelit romantic dinner for two?")

She sighs, rolls her eyes and takes another gulp of wine, but after a moment of hesitation, she answers.

("He cancelled. I just thought tonight would be the night..."

"The night for what?"

"..."

"Violet?"

"We haven't had sex yet.")

She blurts it out the words and my eyes go wide. It takes a moment to even understand what she just said, let alone respond to that, because really... they didn't have sex? For how long? And how is it even possible? I mean if I was her husband... she would never go a day without sex again.

("You mean... since you got married?"

"No. I mean ever."

"But... what? How is that possible, you've been together for years, haven't you?"

"Yeah, and he always said he wanted to wait till marriage to make it 'special'.")

She uses the quote marks, a sneer on her face. I'm still shell shocked.

("You didn't find that suspicious?"

"Of course I did. But what was I supposed to do, force to have sex with me? Break up with him because he didn't?"

"What about your wedding night? Didn't you have sex then?"

"He said he was tired and had a headache."

"Oh, _come on._"

"I know. I just didn't want to fight on our wedding day so I let it go. Wanna know what I think? I think he's screwing other women, probably younger. Basically teenagers, I think that's what he's into. And he only married me so he could have his trophy wife to show off to others, but he's not really attracted to me. That's what his side whores are for. And I just foolishly thought, maybe I can seduce him. Make him want me. I miss sex, you know. So I dressed up, I made dinner, I'm wearing this hot red lingerie underneath that I know you would just die for, and he... he cancels.")

As if I didn't already think my father was a total asshole, this definitely didn't help matters. Hurting Violet, cheating on her, not having sex with her... it all seems so unspeakable to me. Why? Why would he do that? I can't understand. I don't really know what to say to comfort her either, so I just tell her the truth.

("He's an idiot if he doesn't want to be with you. You know, if I had you,-"

"Don't. Don't make this about you, please, don't use it to your advantage."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I won't."

"Screw it. If he can, I can. Have an affair, I mean."

"With me-"

"No. Not with you. You're too young."

"Could be a good thing.")

I shrug. She laughs. My lips curve into a smile - at least I cheered her up, somehow. That was my main intention. Her laughter dies down, but the small smile on her face remains, and she reaches out, twirling a strand of my hair with her fingers. I don't dare move, I even hold my breath, too afraid I'll scare her away. But she just grins one last time and stands up.

As I watch her walk away, all I can think about is that hot red lingerie she mentioned earlier.

.

.

.

It's the beginning of October but on a Sunday morning, I wake up to bright sunshine and unbearable hotness. Living in LA all my life, I'm used to this kind of weather, but I don't like it. I prefer the stormy, windy days, when everything is darker and duller, and the sun doesn't shine so bright. But I guess I'm out of luck lately. Hugo is home too, and he offers to take Violet - and after a moment of awkward silence, me as well - to the beach but she politely declines. I'm glad she does. A crowded, dirty pool full of people and screaming kids? I don't think I'll ever be in the mood for that.

Instead, she suggests to use the pool we have at home in the backyard, and because I really want to see her in a bikini, I support the idea. Of course when I agreed so willingly to participate in this "family moment", I didn't think of how easy it would be to spot my raging hard-on in my swimwear and that became a problem when I saw Violet. Truthfully, I don't even care if she sees my erection or not, - let her know the affect she has on me, let her crave me as well - it's Hugo I'm worried about. Because for one, that would be gross, and for two, I'm sure he'd have some questions for me I could not answer. _Oh, I'm sorry, father, it's just that I have this huge crush on your wife and I want to fuck her seven shades of Sunday and seeing her in a bikini isn't really helping with that._ Yeah, right. I don't think so.

The black bikini she's wearing is fairly simple, of course, not too small or revealing, but it's still enough to get your imagination going. Then again, with Violet, anything can get your imagination going. In the end, I have to think of tasteless, repulsive things - like Constance, just to mention one - to save myself the embarrassment and avoid a family drama. I haven't even won her over yet, I do not need Hugo butting his nose into our business. But she's watching me as well, I can feel her eyes linger on my bare chest when I pass her by. It makes me feel better. Fucking fantastic, to be honest. Hugo won't notice something small and meaningless thing like that, but I do, because to me, it means everything.

We spend about an hour, give or take, at the pool, Violet sunbathing while Hugo and I take turns to swim laps, before he gets bored with it and us. He goes inside with an excuse to make coffee, and then we're alone. She's on her stomach, a book in her hand, and I just can't resist the perfect opportunity to fuck with her a little. As quietly as possible, I stand up and head towards her. She doesn't notice me, not until I place my hand on her leg, my touch probably ice cold from the water. She jumps in surprise, tries to turn around to face me, but I hold her down, keeping her in place.

("Easy there, Vi."

"Tate, what the hell are you doing?"

"Just having a little fun._ Relax,_ will you?"

"It's kinda hard to when your hand is on my leg, and _GODDAMN IT,_ don't you dare try to go higher."

"So you're bothered by my hand on your leg? Does it make you want to do dirty things with me?"

_"You wish."_

"Obviously, I do. But I think you want this too.")

My hand, despite her protests and warnings, slides up higher to her thigh, and I can hear her breath hitch. I pause for a moment, but she doesn't try to move away. Yes, I'm holding her down with my other hand, but if she really wanted to, she could break free. I wouldn't force anything on her that she doesn't want. And that's the thing, she _does_ want this. That's why she doesn't move. So encouraged, I continue. I don't even know what I'm really doing, just teasing her a bit, I guess. I stroke her skin, I draw shapes and patterns with my fingertips, watch her quiver and tremble under my touch. I don't see her face, but it's fascinating nonetheless, to get her like this. All under my control. I wonder how far she would allow me to go... would she allow me to get her off?

That thought in mind, I run my fingers up even higher, almost reaching the edge of her panties, when the moment is ruined. Hugo calls her name from the house and she scrambles to her feet and away from me quicker than I could even react. Damn. I had forgotten about him altogether. I suspect so had she, that's why she allowed me to even get this far. I sigh, rubbing my eyes in disappointment. Damn fucking Hugo, now I'll never know if she would have allowed me to touch her, really touch her. And I don't think she'll allow me close to her again anytime soon. She already can't get away from me faster as it is, muttering that the "coffee must be ready" without even looking at me.

Perfect. Perfect failure.

.

.

.

One day, I come home from school with a bruised lip, a bloody nose and a nasty cut on my cheek, and although I try to head straight to my room, she notices, of course. Initially, I didn't want her to see it but the way she fusses over me makes me change my mind. It's honestly kind of cute, the way she tries to make sure I'm okay before even asking about what happened.

A cloth in her hand, she insists on disinfecting the wound, examining my nose as well. Interestingly enough, she leaves my lips alone.

("Well, it's not broken, you're lucky."

"It has nothing to do with luck, the guy who did this honestly didn't know how to hit."

"So that's what happened? You got into a fight?"

"Yeah. He was an asshole. He thought he could tell me where I can or can't smoke."

"So you beat him up?"

"He threw the first punch. But basically, yeah."

"I suspect he looks far worse than you do."

"How do you know?")

She stops, stares at me for a moment with an unreadable expression. Then she goes back to what she was doing, cleaning my face.

("There's something dark and dangerous in you, Tate. I think when you explode... you really explode.")

For a second I'm convinced I'm screwed because she saw through me and all my facades, she saw the twisted, ugly person I really am and now she would never give me a chance. But she never stops dabbing the cloth against my cheek, doesn't give a disapproving, disgusted or fearful look, doesn't pull away from me. And I realize she's known this for a while. It wasn't a sudden revelation she came to when she saw me all bruised and beaten or when I told her what I did to that guy. She figured it out already, I'm not sure when or how, but maybe she's known it since day one. I wouldn't be surprised. The way I can see through her, the way I know she wants me, she can probably see through me just the same. And she's not running in fear. She's here, tending my wounds. She isn't scared of me or the darkness inside of me.

My lips curl up into a grin. I could kiss her right now. Instead, I tell her, ("Not around you. You're my light") and although she doesn't comment on my remark, I swear I can see her cheeks turning to a faint pink color. A blushing Violet Harmon, how endearing.

Soon, she finishes fetching me up and with her free hand, touches the wound on my cheek. ("There. Now you're good to go.") Her words are only a whisper, and I know I'm not planning to go anywhere right now. Not when the air between us is crackling with electricity, her hand is still on my skin and she's looking at me like she's only one insignificant excuse away from kissing me. I wait, patiently. If we are to kiss, I want her to make the first move. She _has_ to, otherwise later on she'll make up a thousand excuses about how I was the one to kiss her and she was just shocked into kissing me back, and how it was a mistake she regrets. I won't have that. If she doesn't make a move, I'll just walk away and wait for another opportunity to arise. But then her eyes wander down to my lips and I know I won't have to wait. I'm not sure what brought this on so suddenly, but fuck if I care when she's leaning in towards me, her eyes closing. I meet her halfway and it's explosions.

Like tasting heaven. A personalized heaven just for me. I imagined kissing her a thousand times ever since the first time I saw her on the street, but unsurprisingly, my fantasies never even came close. Her lips, which faintly taste of cigarettes, move in perfect synch against my own, getting more eager and eager with each passing second, like she just can't get enough of me. The feeling is mutual. Her hand moves from my cheek to my hair, threading her fingers through the blonde strands, pulling on them quite roughly. I hiss against her lips in both pain and pleasure. I wonder if she knows I like it rough or if she simply likes it that way too. Maybe both. In response to the hair pulling, I bite down on her lip, my hands snaking around her waist, causing her to press against me tighter. I'm not aware of anything else besides her and the feelings she's giving me, and the only thing I'm able to think about is why we haven't been doing this sooner? But of course, all too soon it's over.

When I push for more, try to slip my hands up her shirt, she pulls away like she had been thunderstruck. Her face is flushed, eyes crazy with lust, and I notice with pride that her lip is bleeding from when I bit down on it earlier. Now we match, I think, licking my own bruised lip.

She takes deep, long breaths, rubs her hand against her face. I can already see her closing back up like a flower which only blooms once in a year, and even then only for a few seconds. She's pulling all her walls back up, ready to start resisting me again with full force. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse.

("We shouldn't have done that. I could be your mother, you do realize that?"

"But you're not. And you kissed me back. Actually, _you_ started this."

"I have a son who's older than you. Your mother was the same age as me. It's _not_ okay to do this.")

See? Told you she would care. Before I could say anything, come up with any reason to make her stay, she throws the cloth she's still holding in one hand on the kitchen shelf and storms away. Well. One step forward, two steps back.

.

.

.

The next day the principal requests a meeting with my parents and it's Violet who ends up going. _(Of course.) _That alone wouldn't bother me because I know Violet doesn't really give a crap that I beat up that other kid, but the principal's secretary is a fucking idiot.

("I'm here because of Tate Langdon. I have an appointment with Principal Montgomery."

"Oh, you're his mother, right?"

"Yes."

_"No."_

"..."

"Stepmother. I'm his stepmother.")

She repeats the word like she only just realized it, and maybe that's partially true. I know I haven't thought of it that way either. But unlike her, the revelation doesn't make me withdraw from her, so much so that she even refuses to look at me for the rest of the day. I don't care about that. But I guess it's easier for me, after all, she's the one who's married and she's the one who would be going to jail if anyone ever found out about us. (Not that there's anything to find out about, _yet._) And she did marry Hugo, so some small part of her must care for him at least a little. I don't. I don't give two shits about him. It makes my situation a lot easier, but it doesn't make it easier to watch her pull away from me again. And that's what she does.

The principal goes on and on about how what I've done is unacceptable and it can't happen again and I'm going to be suspended for two weeks. (_Perfect._ More time to spend with Violet.) I don't really listen to him, paying attention to Violet instead. She doesn't look at me but I know she's aware I'm watching her. Her face is hard to read, but her posture is stiff and cold, hands clenched at her side, tapping her leg against the floor. She looks stressed and I wish I could make her feel relaxed for a while. Oh, I have plenty of ideas I could try to make her relax...

Through the whole meeting, she never once calls me by my name, always saying _'stepson'_ instead. As if she has to constantly remind herself. And while today is another step backwards, it gives me hope. Because if she has to keep reminding herself that I'm unavailable to her, then we're on the right track.

.

.

.

After the incident with the principal's secretary and that ugly word, _stepson_, she tries her best to ignore me for days. I admit, she's not bad at it either. She starts going out again to work, to the coffee house, I presume, but when I visit the place one day, she's not there. She must have anticipated me following her here and found a new place. When she's at home, she locks herself in her room most of the time, only going out to the bathroom. She even eats inside her room. It's hard to try to talk some sense into her like this. And I know what she's trying to do. She's building up her walls again, those walls I brought down in the past few weeks, so she can stand up against me stronger. I can't let that happen. I could start from the beginning, begin tearing her down again, but I'm impatient, I don't want to waste precious time anymore. So I have to come up with something. Shock her out of this state, it's the only way.

Thank god I know her schedule by heart now, because I'm going to need it for this next scheme.

.

.

.

Hot water rains down on me, burning my naked skin but I don't mind. Pain is pleasure. I'm waiting for her, inspecting her shampoos and shower gels in the meantime. Any moment now, she could arrive, but until then I busy myself with smelling her shampoo, apples, and pretending it's her hair and she's here with me in the shower, in my arms. Fantastic fantasies which, I hope, will come true one day. Or, if she's not up to it, I would be satisfied with regular bed sex as well, but something tells me it's not happening today. Today is just a step in that direction, if everything goes according to plan.

The bathroom door opens and there she is, blinking at me in shock, mouth agape.

("_Oh my god._"

"Hello, Violet."

"What are you doing in my shower?"

"I was curious what it looked like. How big it is, you know. Mine is kinda small. Couldn't fit two people. This though..."

"_Tate._"

"What? Are you blushing?"

"No!"

"That was awfully quick. You sound defensive."

"_Fuck you._"

"Do you want to?")

That's when she realizes she can't win this argument, or maybe she has no answer she wants to say aloud to that, and fuming, she storms away. I chuckle in amusement because I know perfectly well that her dilated pupils weren't the cause of her anger and I certainly didn't miss the way her eyes lingered on me either. She was turned on, plain and simple. Pissed _and_ turned on.

Perfect combination.

.

.

.

The very next day, I find an envelope sitting on my desk, and perhaps the content of it shouldn't surprise after the stunt I pulled in the bathroom, but it does.

("What's this?"

"Do you like it?"

"_Violet._"

"I figured if you jerked off to thoughts of me every night anyway, you might as well have some new material.")

She's not even looking at me, her eyes still on the book she's reading until I slam my hand down on the table, the photos she gave me spilling out of the envelope, and she raises her eyes to meet mine, unaffected by my outburst. Perhaps it's a bit irrational to be mad, after all it's not like I don't like the pictures, oh I do, a lot, but it frustrates me because I know nothing is going to change still. She's not going to give in yet, maybe not for a while, and she made my suffering so much worse with this.

Payback is a bitch, huh?

("You gotta stop doing this."

"What?"

"Toying with me. Flirt with me then expect me to not act on my feelings. Give me nude photos of yourself then pull away again, like nothing happened. You want this, you want _me_, why don't you just admit it and give in?"

"Maybe I like you chasing me.")

Her answer is accompanied by a careless shrug and then her eyes are back to the book, letting me know without words that she's finished with our conversation. So be it then. I just have to try harder from now on.

I crouch down to gather the pictures from the floor - now that I have them, I'm keeping them. She was right, I do need some new material, and this is gonna come in handy tonight. Or... well, right now because even glancing at them briefly causes my dick to harden. When I stand up, I can see her watching me from the corner of her eye, a proud smirk on her lips. Of course, she _loves_ knowing I think of her while I jerk off, the self-satisfied bitch. Her gaze wanders down to my pants and her eyes visibly darken when she sees the small bulge there, unconsciously running her tongue over her lips.

She's going to be the death of me.

She snaps her gaze back up when I let out a small groan, our eyes meeting, her book forgotten in her hands. She's burning a hole in me with the intensity of her stare, and I can just imagine the things running through her mind right now. Probably similar things I'm thinking of. Like wrapping her legs around my waist, pushing my hard cock inside her heat, making her scream until her throat is sore and she can't breathe...

I'm brought out of my fantasies by the whisper of my name, a quiet longing sound which leaves her lips. I'm not sure if she's even aware she said it, but either way, I'm more than satisfied to see how much I affected her as well. It's not just me and I always knew that, but it always thrilled me to realize it again and again.

It's my turn to smirk at her, holding up the pictures as I turn around to go and let her steam in her own sexual frustration for a while.

("Thanks for the pictures, Violet.")

As I leave, I can hear her blow out a long sigh of yearning, and I smile. Apparently, you can go far with Violet Harmon if you only give her some eye sex.

.

.

.

Whoever says insomnia is a curse is an idiot. That's my opinion that night, when I can't fall asleep for the life of me, wandering the halls of the house aimlessly. At first I'm annoyed too. I watch a movie with some popcorn, I drink a cup of tea, I read, and something still keeps me up at two a.m. It isn't even not being able to sleep which frustrates me, it's being bored. I have nothing to do. Until I walk by Violet's room.

The noises I hear coming from inside make me stop in my steps. Moaning. Quiet, small moans, but in the dead silence of the night, you can hear them just fine. _Is it... is it Violet? Who is she with? _I grit my teeth together, hands clenching at my side. I wasn't aware that Hugo was home, so unless he arrived back from his trip earlier than intended, she's with someone else. She's cheating on Hugo with someone who _isn't_ me. God, that is just... insulting. I'm the one who spent countless days and weeks tearing her walls down, making her trust me, _want_ me, and now she goes and fucks someone else to relieve her sexual frustration because I'm too _young_. Some stupid fucker stealing your woman after all your hard work, it makes me want to kick the door out and beat the guy to death.

And on top of it all, -

("Tate.")

I freeze. Did she say my name? Am I hallucinating? I step closer towards the door, mouth open in surprise. Is she thinking about me while fucking somebody else? Wait a minute... is she even with somebody else? I suck in a deep breath, blinking. _Maybe... _Pressing my ears against the door, I listen. I can hear sheet rustling, heavy breathing, quiet whimpers, but no sound which would come from a male. She's alone then. Alone and fingering herself.

While thinking of me.

So what do I do? Do I go in or not? Do I help her get off or do I stay and listen? I'm not sure how she would react if I did go in. In the heat of her passion, she might allow me to touch her, kiss her, maybe even fuck her, but later? What if she regrets it later? I might just be digging myself a hole if this doesn't go right. I want her to want this and agree to it, consciously, with a clear head, not while she's half over the edge, desperate for a release.

So I stay. And listen. And now that I've made sure she's alone in there, I can concentrate on the sounds she makes, which... I wish I had a recorder with me. It boosts your ego, to hear someone get off while thinking about you, moaning, crying out your name, but with Violet, it's even more special. I imagine her sprawled out on her bed, her legs spread, her head thrown back against the pillow in pleasure as she works her fingers in and out of herself. Imaging it was my fingers bringing her closer to her orgasm. In my head, her hair is all over the place and I long to touch it, thread my fingers through the locks and pull on them roughly, bringing her face up to kiss her. Her eyes are closed and she's biting down on her lips to keep from releasing any sounds, trying to remain quiet, but small desperate whines still escape every now and then. Her legs begin shaking as she nears her much anticipated high and with one last louder cry of my name, she tumbles over the edge, her body bowing up on the bed in pleasure.

The next thing I know, my hands are sticky, my body is spent and my mind is satisfied. The noises coming from the other side cease to be heard as well. Happy, I slump down to the floor in exhaustion, a huge grin on my face. There's the sleepiness I've been waiting for. And after witnessing this scene, my hope for us is stronger than ever.

I can go and fall asleep peacefully now.

.

.

.

Christmas is uneventful. Hugo, sadly, manages to make it home and Violet is delighted - or _pretends_ to be delighted - but for some unfathomable reason to me, he still doesn't fuck her. Not that I don't appreciate it, oh, I do. But if I was her husband... well, she certainly wouldn't be so sexually unsatisfied.

Hugo says he'll try to come home for New Year's Eve as well, but he doesn't make promises. Ever since they got married, he goes on "business trips" much more often than he used to - or at least that's what Violet tells me - and I'm pretty sure he has a mistress. Or mistresses, who knows. I wonder why she doesn't confront him about it, but I think part of her just stopped caring at this point. They don't interact much, not even when he's home. For Christmas, he gets her a red diamond necklace which - just like her engagement ring - I know is too excessive for her, but she smiles and thanks him anyway. All I can think about when she presses a kiss to his cheek is that I don't think I've ever even seen her wearing a necklace before.

Violet's son, Gale, also comes to visit for the holidays and I would like the guy - he's a lot like his mother - if he didn't steal all of Violet's attention away from me. Nothing really happens besides that. It's a fairly simple, fairly boring Christmas we have.

But when she sees my gift for her - a mini Eiffel tower statue and a Russian nestling doll to symbolize her work - she gives me a huge, bright smile, a _real_ smile, and that's the most exciting thing which happens in those three days.

.

.

.

Unsurprisingly, Hugo doesn't make it home for New Year's Eve after all. I watch Violet prepping all day - she chooses her dress, curls her hair, puts on her red diamond necklace and goes to extraordinary lengths - especially for her - to make sure her make up is perfect. When I question it, she explains that he's called to let her know he's coming home tonight and she wants to look good for him. I think she just wants to make him want her. I don't think she actually wants to sleep with him anymore - and why would she, when there's me, and when he's a total asshole who doesn't deserve such a magnificent woman as Violet - but I know it bothers her that he never showed any interest in her. Women pride and all. So she does her best to look stunning, and I'm sad to see her try so hard because I know it's futile. Not because she doesn't look beautiful - she would look beautiful in dirty, ragged clothes and the joke's on Hugo for not realizing that - but because I know he's not coming. He will cancel at the last minute, as always, and I think deep down, she knows that too. She knows I'm not going anywhere tonight, I have told her weeks ago, so if my calculations are right, it'll be just the two of us.

And I know that this is it. Tonight, it's happening. We've been dancing around each other for months and I've had enough. She's had enough. I just need to make her see it. By the amount of sexual frustration she must feel at this point, - which is approximately the same amount as my own - and by the anger she will most likely feel when Hugo inevitably cancels, it shouldn't be that hard.

But it _is_ Violet we're talking about here. Better not to get too cocky.

Through the whole day, I drop hints and comments about kissing her once the clock strikes twelve - because it's _tradition_, of course - and then perhaps doing some more if she allows it, but she ignores them all, just as always. I'm too determined to let that bother me today. I'm calm, I know the secret. She'll be mine by the end of the day.

Year. Whatever.

Around eleven o'clock Hugo calls and I can tell just from her expression that he hasn't disappointed. He's not coming. She doesn't offer any explanations after she hangs up because she knows she doesn't need to say anything, and instead opens a bottle of champagne. I take it from her immediately because I don't want even a sip of alcohol clouding her judgement tonight and it causes a bit of a ruffle between us. She ends up storming off, her ass swaying in her green dress and I swear to God, she's doing it on purpose. She looks good, I admit. The dress is nice, not too slutty, but it clings to her body in all the right places and her dark make up highlights her eyes perfectly. Yet, I think I prefer her natural look. Because this woman, the one who wears short dresses, curls her hair and uses make up, no matter how good she looks, it isn't her.

Hugo would have liked seeing her like this, I think. Exactly because it's not her. He doesn't really want her, just a trophy wife. The bastard doesn't know what he's missing, but at least this way, I get to have her all to myself. Once she finally gives herself to me, that is.

A few minutes before midnight, I go knocking on her door, pleased to see that the dress and make up are gone. Only the curls remain. She doesn't look too mad anymore and she's willing to walk back to the living room with me for the countdown. I can hardly contain myself anymore, just about dying to finally kiss her again. If she thought I was just joking around earlier, she would be in for a surprise now. Somehow though, I suspect she knows I was being completely serious. I always am when it comes to her.

_10._

The countdown starts and I stare at her the whole time.

_9._

She stares back, an almost hoping look on her face.

_8._

I wonder if she wants me to kiss her.

_7._

No, that's a stupid question.

_6._

Of course she does.

_5._

It's just a matter of finally accepting it and embracing it.

_4._

Her hungry expression intensifies as midnight draws closer.

_3._

Her eyes wander down to my lips and I grin.

_2._

Score.

_1._

She wants this as much as I do and I know she's not going to pull away or try to stop me, not this time.

So I finally lean in.

I've only kissed her once before, when she was treating the wounds on my face, but that memory is forever etched into my brain and it served as my masturbation material for a very long time. This kiss is almost exactly like that one was. Her lips still taste of cigarettes, and I love it because it's so entirely _her_. I was originally planning on giving her a quick kiss - something which would be enough to get her going and ache for me, a kiss I could just blame on the holiday spirit - and then I would pull away, letting her make the next move, (which would undoubtedly be yanking me back and attaching her mouth to mine) but naturally, she ruins my plan. Her tongue, wet and warm, runs along my lower lip and I'm lost, our kiss deepening. My mouth opens for her and her tongue slips inside, my hand wandering down from her hair to her waist and then gradually to her ass. In response, her hand on my chest starts slipping down my stomach, stopping when she reaches my navel and then back up. She begins teasing my nipple under my shirt, making small circles with her fingers, and I know she's deliberately trying to rile me up. I'm not sure what kind of reaction she expects, but it works, I lose all my self-control, and the next thing I know, her legs are wrapped around my waist and her back is against the wall.

I swallow her surprised gasp with a kiss, but my mouth doesn't linger there for long, breaking away from her lips to give some attention to her neck as well. At this point her heavy breathing is audible in the room as I lavish her skin with kisses, moans erupting from her every now and then when I push my hips against hers. My earlier plan of giving her a quick, make-her-want-more kind of kiss resurfaces, and I have to marvel at how easily I lost control of the situation. All it took was to get her damn tongue involved too. But I don't mind, because although it's not how I imagined it to go down, it _is_ happening. And I know that neither one of us is willing to stop now.

Despite that, I need confirmation and perhaps that's the only motivation I have to stop and pull away from her. Her head is thrown back against the wall, eyes closed, mouth open, still in an euphoric state from my earlier ministrations I guess, and she has never looked more beautiful. In fact, I'm so taken aback by the goddess before my eyes that the most I can do is rasp out her name in a throaty whisper, hoping to convey every unasked question I had in that one word. Her eyes flutter open and she only nods at me, understanding everything I wasn't saying. And with that one little nod, it's back on again.

Somehow, I don't know how, we end up in her bedroom with me on top of her, our legs a tangled mess. It takes everything in me to break away, because now that I have her, I never want to let her go, but I have to remove her clothes somehow. The whine she lets out when I pull away from her makes me feel better. It's not just me who feels this way, it's her too, she doesn't want to be away from me either. Grinning, I pull her shirt over her head but I'm not prepared to see that she's not wearing a bra underneath. Oh, fuck me.

I've seen her naked before on the pictures she gave me, the pictures I still have and often look at, but they're nothing compared to the real thing. It's an entirely new experience to see her like this, and although I'm no virgin, I feel like one with her. Which is not a good thing. I can't afford to fucking screw this up. I want to make this about her, make her feel good so she'll want more, and I need to focus. Get your shit together, Tate Langdon.

I start out by stroking her flushed cheek, gradually moving my hand down her body until I reach her exposed breasts, marveling at how uplifting it feels to touch her like this. Remember when I first saw her and was convinced her breasts were just the right size to fit in my palm? I was right. Oh so right. This is what it looks like when two people are made for each other, physically and mentally. I tug on her leggings, quickly pulling them down her legs while I attach my mouth to one of her nipples just to hear her moan for me, such a sweet sound. She's almost naked now, only in her panties, and even through the material I can feel how wet I made her for me. _Perfection. _My lips still sucking on her nipple, my hand explores her inner thigh, stroking her creamy white skin and coming close to touching her cunt more than once, but withdrawing each time. The small sound she makes when I do that makes me want to do it over and over again. However, I think she has other plans in mind.

Because with a surprising force for such a small woman, she pushes me off of her, straddling me before I could blink. The grin she wears when she looks down at me says "You have no idea what you're in for." Honestly, I can't fucking wait. I realize I'm still fully clothed which just won't do. Thankfully, she's one step ahead of me, making quick work of my buttons and belt, while she lowers her head down to pepper my chest with small, open mouthed kisses, chuckling when I give sound to my satisfaction. She swirls her tongue around my nipple and I let out some more of those noises while tugging on her last remaining clothing item, her panties. Gone, I want them gone as soon as possible. She lifts her hips, allowing me to remove them before I tore the material, chuckling meanly at my impatience. Fucking bitch. She's lucky I'm so damn into her.

I sit up on the bed, finding her neck with my lips, her hair falling all around us. Sucking on her pulse point, my fingers finally touch her wetness, no barrier between us anymore. I rub her clit at first, gradually applying the pressure to hear her breathing grow more and more unsteady by the moment. She gasps my name, ordering me to get naked, _now_, and of course, like a lovesick little puppy, I have to comply. Once my boxers are out of the way, she takes my hand, kisses my fingertips and then lowers herself down between my legs with an evil grin that promises both pain and pleasure. My favorite combination. My hips buck up on their own accord in anticipation, but of course, she doesn't give me what I want so easily. Instead she sucks on my inner thigh, probably leaving a hickey behind, but I don't mind. Nobody but me and her would see it in the place she left it, but even if they did... let them. The whole world could know about us for all I cared. Eventually, though, I have enough of her teasing and yanking her back up, I give her a long, searing kiss, my hands tangling in her curls while I flip us over. Now it's her turn to be submissive.

I give her a similar grin she gave me before she began her teasing, and then I disappear between her legs. I originally plan on paying her back for the teasing, giving her hell for a while, but much like my earlier plan, it doesn't quite work out. Because as soon as I'm close enough to smell her arousal, I need to taste her too. I build it up, start from her knee and make my way up, but when I arrive at my destination, I can't hold myself back anymore. I dive in, my tongue darting out to lick her sweet cunt, enjoying the immediate series of whimpers and curse words leaving her mouth. She tastes like honey, I think, except better. It's the closest thing I can think of to describe it. I fuck her with my tongue, pushing it inside her, and I don't stop until she's mewling, her legs are shaking and she's practically bowing off the bed, so desperate for her release. And _then,_ I stop.

Of course she's horrified, disappointed and angry. She curses at me and I just chuckle, the evil grin still in place. Oh yes, payback is a bitch. But she won't have to wait long to get off anyway, because I don't think I can take much more of this foreplay either. The last few months have been enough foreplay, and we've played around long enough for tonight, it's time for the grand finale. I swear she sighs in relief when I finally climb on top of her, positioning my dick at her entrance. She wraps her arms around me, placing open mouthed kisses on my cheek and mouth, patiently - impatiently - waiting for me to make my move, and I do, I finally slide inside her wetness. From there on, it's all a mess of tangled limbs, breathy moans and harsh thrusts. My heart beats her name, every thump is in her honor. _Violet, Violet, Violet... _She's there in every heartbeat, every sigh, every noise. She's in my bloodstream, now and forever.

When I thrust, she mewls. I hoist her leg up higher, she scratches her nails down my back. I moan, she whimpers. I slow down to tease, she pushes me off and takes the lead herself. I turn us around again, she grabs my neck, bites into my shoulder. We take turns being on top, both of us wanting to be in control, the dominant one. She rides my cock eagerly, and I fuck her, hard and fast, like I know she wants to be fucked. There'll probably be bruises and marks all over our bodies tomorrow, and she'll be sore, maybe even struggling to walk, but neither one of us care right now. Not when it feels so good, so _right_ to do this. Like we've always been meant to do it, be with each other. Be with her.

She comes twice before I'm able to get off as well, and each time, the look on her face is worth all the long months I spent trying to seduce her. Afterwards, we lie in bed for a while, speechless and breathing heavily, trying to calm our racing hearts. She runs a hand through her hair, turns towards me with a mischievous grin.

("Fuck me. You _do_ have the experience."

"Did you think I didn't?"

"I don't know... you were always so full of yourself but I didn't know if there was any truth in it. I certainly hoped there was and you weren't just some inexperienced beginner looking for a quick fuck. Even if that means you probably had to sleep around a lot... didn't you?"

"I wouldn't say a lot. Don't be jealous."

"I'm not, asshole.")

She laughs and kisses me, nibbling on my lips playfully. I stroke her cheek, a content smile on my face as I watch her. She looks happy too, as happy as I feel. That's gotta be a good sign, right? I think it is, and it only makes my smile widen.

("Happy New Year, Vi. I'm glad you finally gave in."

"Happy New Year, Tate. I'm glad I gave in too.")

.

.

.

I enjoy playing with fire and I always did, maybe that's why I find it so amusing to steal touches and kisses from Violet while Hugo is around but not looking. God, the man is a dimwit. He has no clue I'm screwing his wife. Even when I sneak in while Violet is showering and get her off using my fingers, even when she tiptoes out of their room at night while he's sleeping to visit me, he doesn't suspect a thing. Or he just doesn't care. I suspect it's the first but either one works for me.

Violet enjoys our little game too. She's attracted to the danger just as much as I am, maybe that's one of the reasons why she felt so drawn to me as well. I guess I symbolize the danger here. And she's eager to play along with me. She grins when I place my hand on her thigh under the table while we're having dinner and responds by running her toes up my lower calf. I begin stroking her leg then, lightly, teasingly running my fingertips over the leggings she's wearing and watch as her face changes, alighted by it. Easy, it's so easy to get her going and hot for me. I lift my glass of water to my lips to hide my proud smile - not that Hugo would even notice, but it's half the fun to sneak around like two teenagers from their parents... No pun intended.

She lasts five more minutes under my ministrations, five minutes which I spend teasing her mercilessly, but when I decide to get a little brave and bold, and dip my fingers between her legs, she throws her silverware on the table and stands up abruptly. Clearing her throat, she addresses Hugo and I adjust my pants just a little, ready to follow after her with whatever made up excuse I can come up with.

("Uhm... I'm gonna go get some wine."

"I'll help her bring glasses.")

Once we're in the kitchen, she reaches up to open the top cabinet, but I have other plans and press her up against the counter from behind. The quiet appreciative moan she lets out is music to my ears. I slip my hands around her waist, hold onto her tightly, kiss her neck.

("I'm so tempted to just take you on this counter, right here, right now, Vi."

"Patience, Tate."

"My father probably wouldn't even notice."

"We can't."

"Are you sure?"

"Tate. _T-tate._")

She turns around with a stern look on her face, but I can see the desire in my own eyes reflecting back at me. She's trying to warn me to stay put but her expression says otherwise. Still, I grin innocently and hold my hands up in a gesture to let her know I'll be a good boy from now on.

_Maybe._

.

.

.

We end up sneaking out to the bathroom for a quick fuck, neither of us willing to wait any longer.

.

.

.

("I'm the one in charge today.")

Those words and a handcuff around my wrists are what I wake up to. Still sleepy and disoriented, I can only blink in confusion, watching her grin like a Cheshire cat. It takes me a moment, when she slips her hands inside my boxers, to realize what's happening. She's just made me her prisoner. Well, fuck me sideways, she's playing dirty.

But when she licks her way down my stomach, watching me the entire time, laughing meanly when I buck my hips impatiently as she hovers above my cock, I discover that waking up like this might just be the best thing in the world.

.

.

.

Things go great between us, maybe _too_ great, and that's why I get a little ahead of myself and manage to screw things up with only one small conversation. It's not like it wasn't coming though. I had been dreading and anticipating to have this conversation with her for months, and ever since we... started our "affair", it was inevitable. I'm not someone who likes sharing, and as much fun as sneaking around is, I'd prefer to be able to take her out on dates and just let the world know that she is mine and I am hers. The only problem is that she's _technically_ not mine, even though I'm fully hers.

It's bright in the morning and I'm freshly showered and very much naked as I come back to her room, finding her awake and watching me like a hungry animal. A half smirk is playing on her mouth and she doesn't even bother to be subtle with checking me out, staring at my dick quite obviously. She even licks her lips and I chuckle.

("Enjoying the view?"

"Always."

"You're insatiable, anyone ever told you that?"

"It's all your fault. You make me horny like a teenage girl. I guess your youth is contagious."

"You don't have to compliment me, you know. I'll fuck you either way.")

She laughs then, loud and happy. She grabs my arm to bring me closer to her and kisses me, hungry, eager and passionate. It's easy to get lost in her every time we kiss, or touch, and soon she's naked too, writhing beneath me and asking for more, more, more. I guess we're both still a little tired from our last night activities and neither one of us is in the mood for much foreplay, so it's quickly over with one last heated cry of pleasure and rasp of her name. Then, when I'm laying beside her, my arms thrown around her body, breathing in the small of her shampoo, all I can think about is how I don't want her doing this with anyone else. Not necessarily with Hugo because he obviously doesn't care for her, but anyone else. I want to be the only man in her life, the only one she really, truly loves, the only one who can get her hot and wet like I did just now. I don't want to share her with my father even on paper and I don't want to risk her falling for some other man. I couldn't stand it.

I guess I just want us to be official.

My lips find her ear, pressing a kiss to the shell, whispering quietly.

("Divorce him.")

The change in the atmosphere is obvious. For a moment she freezes up in my arms, then she's moving away quickly, disbelieving and shocked as she disentangles herself from me, my attempts to keep her with me futile. She grabs her robe from the chair, pulls it on hurriedly. I wonder what the fuck I've just done and if she'll just walk out on me or engage in this conversation which I know will turn into a row and perhaps a break up.

("What?"

"I... I said divorce him."

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Why not? You and him, you're married only on paper."

"I'm not going to throw my whole life away for some boy."

"I'm not a fucking _boy_. And what life are you talking about? He's never even around. _I_ am your life here."

"You and I both know it's not that simple. There's nothing you can offer me, no kind of future."

"I wouldn't leave you."

"That's what you think now. But in five short years I'll be fifty, and then sixty, and you'll only be at the prime of your life. You won't want me. And I can't ask you to want me."

"So that's your problem still? The age difference?"

"_YES. _The _fucking_ age difference, Tate. There's no tangible future we can ever have. I can divorce Hugo, I can go and live a few more years with you in bliss until you get bored or disgusted with me, and that's it. Why should I leave a life which makes sense, a life which is comfortable for something so shaky?"

"Take a chance..."

"It's not a chance if you know what's waiting. You know I'm right. I can't give you what you want either. Children, for example."

"I don't want children without you."

"You're young. You have no idea what you're talking about. I should have known better. This... we should end this."

"Vi,-"

"We always knew we had an expiration date.")

Yeah, I guess we did. If she's not willing to leave Hugo, we do have an expiration date. I just didn't think it would come so soon.

.

.

.

For the next few weeks, I'm miserable. She avoids me again, just like after the incident with the principal's secretary. She's not at home if she can help it, locks herself in the room again. If we see each other in the hallways, she barely mutters a quiet hello and avoids my eyes, hurrying away, while I'm left frozen on the spot, staring after her longingly. It's much worse now, now that I know what I'm missing. Now that I've fallen for her. Now that I know what it's like to have her and be with her, be inside her, make her whimper and cry out in pleasure, make her come while screaming my name. I miss her, plain and simple. I think she misses me too, that's why she tries so hard to avoid me. Either that, or she thinks it'd be too awkward for us to interact. Which is true, I suppose. But I'd take even the awkward interactions if it meant I'd have her back in my life again.

I'm not sure what I can do to get her back. Somehow, I doubt that stripping naked and using her shower will help this time. Too much has changed since then. Our feelings evolved, our relationship was taken to another level... It wouldn't be easy to win her back. But I have to try. It's simply not an option to just give up, because I need her like the air I breathe. I can't remember what it's like to function without her anymore.

I just need her back, in whatever capacity she allows me to be in her life. Friends, lovers... hell, I'll even be her "stepson" if she wants me to be. I'll take what I can get.

.

.

.

Hugo is home again and for once in my life, I don't mind. Because he's home and that means she stays at home as well. Now is my chance to act, to come up with something and win her back. Except I still have no freaking clue what to do. The best I can do is try and talk to her, make things okay again. I'll say whatever I need to say to get her to warm up to me again, but I think she senses my intentions and tries to surround herself around Hugo whenever she can. It's almost impossible to get her alone for more then a minute like this. She's always been a clever woman and I used to adore that about her, but now it's just a tad bit frustrating. _If she only allowed me to talk to her, just for five minutes..._ I know I could make things right again.

I know Hugo isn't staying for long, he never does, and I'm quickly running out of time again. Desperate now, I almost result to sneaking into their bedroom at night or something similarly insane, when it happens. They have a fight. And it's a loud, crazy, earth shattering fight. She screams so loud I can hear her from my room with my door closed, and he yells back at her just as loud. From what I understand, she finally confronted him about his affairs and he denies everything, appalled that she would even say such a thing, while she's pissed he takes her for an idiot. Things quickly escalate and the fight reaches its peak when she bluntly asks him why he won't have sex with her, to which he doesn't have an answer. A few minutes later I can hear the front door slam shut and then dead silence.

I'm sitting on my bed, listening for any more noises, contemplating going downstairs to see who left and who stayed (my bet is that Hugo left, of course) when there's a knock on my door. Violet steps inside, her face tentative, hovering at the door. I shoot up from my bed, shocked but pleasantly so, reassuring her to come in. _Okay, here's your chance, you can do this, don't screw this up._

She sits down slowly, watching me. Her face holds so many emotions, I can't even begin to identify them all. Sadness, guilt, regret, longing... just to name a few. I open my mouth to say something, but she holds up her hands to stop me. It takes her another few seconds to gather what she's trying to say.

("I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"You know what. I avoided you."

"If you're ready to be friends again, it's fine."

"Friends? Is that what you want now?"

"Well... no. But that's all I'm going to get, isn't it?"

"I'm not going to leave Hugo. But I missed you."

"I mi,-"

"In every way you can miss someone, I did. If you still want me..."

"Are you... do you want to continue our affair?"

"On the condition that that's all it's going to be. An affair."

"..."

"Well?"

"I'm fine with that.")

We waste no more time talking that night. We've only been apart for a few weeks, but I missed her tremendously, and we have a lot to make up for. When I finally thrust inside her again, hear her gasp, hear my own groan, I thank my father silently for chasing her back into my arms. It wasn't ideal, wasn't how I planned for it to happen, but I'm just glad she came back to me. Even if our relationship just continued where we left off, with me being her dirty little secret, and her being my whole life, it's better than nothing.

After all, I did say I'd take what I can get. For now, at least.

.

.

.

I watch her light up a cigarette, carelessly tossing the lighter away as she inhales deeply. She does that a lot, I realize, smoke after we had sex, still in bed. It's one of her many habits I've come to know and love. And I think lately, love became the keyword with us. At least for me. I suspect - or maybe I just hope, I don't know - that she feels the same, although she's never said it. Granted, neither have I, but it's in the way I look at her, in the way I touch her, hold her and have sex with her. And last week, on a whim, I wrote those words on her chalkboard while she was out shopping. She never said anything about it, didn't even acknowledge my words, but I know she saw it. How could she have missed it when it's there, staring in your face every time you step inside her room? Even now, if I lift my head up a little, I can still see it. Because she's never erased the words either. I don't think that's a bad sign, but the fact that she never tried to talk to me about it isn't exactly too encouraging either. That's why up until now, I didn't dare approach the subject, too afraid.

I don't know why I choose this moment to bring it up. She's always in a blissful state post-sex with her cigarettes, so perhaps I'm hoping it will make her more willing to have this conversation with me. I start slowly, cautious. Baby steps.

("If I was older... or if you were younger, if we were the same age, and we could have a future together. Would you leave him for me?"

"_Tate._"

"What? It's just a question."

"I don't know... I don't think about things like that."

"You don't? You don't think about what it would be like, if you and I could be together, for real? Never?"

"No. It's too painful.")

That is something. So she thinks that thinking about us being together is too painful because it'll never happen? Does that mean she _wants_ us to be together for real? Why else would it be painful for her? I know it is painful for me, but sometimes I just can't help myself. Afterwards, I always feel sad and melancholic, because I know that the end of day my fantasies are just that, only _fantasies_. And I so desperately want them to be real, to be with her without complications and reservations. Does she feel the same?

Before I could ask her, she goes on.

("And I don't see why I should waste my time on such stupid little fantasies which will never come true, when I can just be here with you in the now and enjoy us in the present."

"So you do feel something for me, don't you?"

"What?"

"I know you saw my _'I love you'_ on the chalkboard. It's still there. See? You never said anything about it, but-

"Because you shouldn't have done that, Tate."

"Why? It's the truth. I do-"

"Don't.")

I close my mouth, frustrated rather than heartbroken. She puts out her cigarette and closes her eyes with a sigh, settling back against the pillows. A few minutes pass in silence, and I just watch her as she pretends to be asleep or something. I know she's not. I've observed her sleeping for hours sometimes and that's not what it looks like when she's asleep. That's why I decide to stop this charade by climbing on top of her, delighted by the small moan leaving her lips. Her eyes flutter open and for a moment we just stare at one another, my hand stroking her hair, the other one holding her cheek. In those seconds, willingly or unwillingly, she says more to me than any words could. So when she leans up to kiss me, I let her, ready to drop the subject for a few days.

But when my lips press kisses against her breasts and my finger is inside her, moving slowly, I do utter those words aloud, I tell her I love her and she says nothing but whimpers. And when we have sex, it's the first time I feel like we're actually making love and not just fucking.

.

.

.

("I slept with Hugo last night.")

It's those words which make me stop and freeze in horror. It's around noon and we're laying in bed, entirely spent after celebrating for hours that Hugo thankfully left again, our clothes discarded, the handcuff still dangling from the bed frame. I was stroking her arm, making shapes and patterns on her skin, and she rested her head in the crook of my neck, but now my hands are stilled and her head is propped up on her palm, looking at me worriedly.

("Tate. Say something."

"Couldn't you have thought of a better time to tell me that?"

"I'm sorry. He's my husband, what was I supposed to do?"

"Tell him you're not up to it. Fake a headache, make up an excuse, anything."

"I did. I stalled it for days, Tate, he was trying to sleep with me since the day he came home. Eventually, I ran out of excuses, and I didn't think it was a good idea to make him suspicious."

"_Great._ Any reason you waited to tell me this until we had sex?"

"Because I knew you'd react like this.")

At this point I'm up and pulling on my pants, not bothering to find my boxers in this mess. The images invading my brain make my blood boil and my hand shake. Jealousy. I thought I knew what it looked like when I found out Violet was engaged to my father, when she married him, when she made such an effort to lure him into her bed. But... nothing could have prepared me for the feeling of this white hot fury when I imagine her writhing under _him_, moaning for _him_, coming because of _him_, and knowing that it did happen, it isn't just my overactive imagination.

I don't look at her even as she stands up as well, trying to placate me. I don't want to be placated right now. No, I want to destroy something. Hugo, preferably. Because I couldn't destroy her, not even now, not even when I'm angry with her. I love her. That's why this hurts so much.

("Tate, please. I told you because I wanted to be honest with you."

"Fucking hurray. Next time, don't be, okay?"

"I'm sorry this hurts you but it didn't mean anything to me. It wasn't even great. And frankly, you're being a bit immature. He's my husband. Did you think we would never ever have sex?"

"Well, he didn't have much interest in you before. I wonder why that changed.")

And that's when it hits me. The fury is momentarily forgotten, replaced by a sinking feeling of realization. He knows. Hugo knows about our affair, he has to. Maybe he doesn't know it's me, but he must suspect she's having an affair. Why else would he be suddenly so interested in sleeping with her when he never gave her the time of day before?

It makes sense. And it makes me sick to the stomach. Because in a few months, I'll be eighteen and if he does know I'm the one who's fucking his wife, he'll throw me out. He won't tolerate me here. And he won't let her go either. He doesn't really care about her, he just wants the trophy wife, a good obedient wife. And Violet, she'll choose him. She won't leave him, she's made that clear. Thus...

It's over.

Before I know it, I'm on my knees, head buried in my hands, chest heaving with the deep breaths I take. There are no tears I can shed. For some reason, my eyes are dry like a desert, but the sheer desperation alone is more than I can take. Violet is beside me, gripping my shoulder, holding my face and murmuring something I can't make out. Her tone of voice is worried. My voice is barely a croak.

("He knows."

"What?"

"He knows. That you're sleeping with me. Or somebody."

"Do you really think I'm so unattractive that the only reason he wanted to sleep with me is because he was jealous?"

"_No,_ Violet. You're far from unattractive. But he obviously never realized that so why now? You know it makes sense."

"Okay, so what then? He knows, and?"

"And he'll throw me out. And you'll choose him.")

She deflates like a balloon, moving away. Away from me. Nothing but a quiet sigh leaves her lips but she doesn't have to say anything because I know I'm right, we both know it. Her eyes, so sad as she watches me, say it all. I guess I always knew it wouldn't last. That it was too good to be true. But this was unexpected, it threw me off balance. I thought, _hoped_ that we still had more time. I thought I could just be with her some more, enjoy her presence for as long as I could. It wasn't enough, the time we had together. I never had the chance to take her out on a date, to buy her flowers, to make her say those three words back. I didn't have enough time to memorize everything about her - the exact shape of her lips or the shade of her eyes... I feared I would forget, with time. Not her, never her, but the little things. The details. I couldn't bear it.

So lost I am in my thoughts, that when I finally come back to my senses, it shocks me to see her eyes shining with unshed tears. It's unlike her. Violet didn't cry, she never cried. I don't think I've ever even seen her tear up before even though I probably know her better than anyone else. The fact that those tears are there in her eyes now lets me know just how deep her feelings run for me too. It should make me feel better, but it does the opposite. I hate to be the one to cause her pain like this, especially if she's feeling the same way as I do. Unspeakable hurt, unsolvable aching. I almost wish she didn't care for me like I cared for her.

I reach out, stroking her chin, pulling her closer to me. Her eyes close at my touch.

("Don't cry."

"I love you."

"I know.")

Those words send my heart racing, even though I've suspected it for a while now. I didn't think she would say it, and perhaps she wouldn't have if the inevitable end of our relationship didn't hang above us like the sword of Damocles. I know that's probably the only reason she brought herself to say it, but I don't mind. I know it doesn't make those words any less true. That's what counts, that they are true.

Eyes still closed, she hums softly, resting her head on my shoulder. I don't know how long we stay like that but despite the heartache we both feel, it's the most peaceful I've ever felt with her.

.

.

.

I leave that night after she falls asleep, pack my stuff and go without a word. I figure she would understand anyway, why I left. She doesn't need a goodbye letter. She already knows everything I could say to her, that I love her, that I would never forget her... If I left behind a letter, she might be inclined to keep it and if Hugo ever finds it... No, a letter would only be proof for him and we don't need that.

She'll know anyway. I don't think she expects me to leave so sudden, but when she discovers I did, she will know why. I wasn't about to stay, waiting for Hugo to throw me out, hanging around just to see her choose him. I would rather leave before that, on my own terms, save myself the heartbreak and save her the tears. Spare us both the awkward exchange of goodbyes. I feel it would only cheapen our relationship, because nothing I could ever say to her would properly express my feelings. Moreover, I never want to say goodbye to her because it feels final, real. And between us, I never want the end to be final. Because maybe we'll meet again someday.

So I leave, no goodbyes, no words, no note. I don't know where I'm going and I don't care. Anywhere. Everywhere. The only thing I care about is keeping my hope alive, that I'll see her again.

In another life. In the afterlife.


End file.
